


Seven Minutes In Heaven

by anxietycheesecake



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bad work ethics at least, Come Swallowing, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forbidden Love, It's about the inherent comedy of the cute religious gardener, Making Out, Oral Sex, Quickies, Sort Of, They're real people not Crowley and Aziraphale, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, do you really hate him if he's cute and caring and fucks the shit out of you?, having the most magical cock ever, is it really enemies to lovers if you hate his guts but he hasn't had a negative feeling ever?, it's not about the utopia of coming from penetration only with barely any foreplay at all, who can't kill bugs because it gives him anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxietycheesecake/pseuds/anxietycheesecake
Summary: Whatever the reason is, this is the result: they’re all alone in the garden, she isn’t wearing her coat due to the warm weather and he’s got her pinned against a tree.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Seven Minutes In Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I've got so many works in progress and my response to that issue is getting another one. Sorry to everyone who is waiting for the other stuff. I'm working on my other Nanny/Francis thingy and a Christmas gift. That's all, I'm awful lol
> 
> This will only be seven chapters long (originally three, but I had to make it seven once I got the title). I've got most of it already written, but I always take too long with revisions because English likes to be a little bitch and I happen to be very bad at dominating it. Hope you like it. Expect everything in the tags and a few more things I'll warn you about in the chapters notes/summaries.
> 
> This one contains a few references to Nanny Ashtoreth having a heavy past with men who took advantage of her when she was younger (possibly underage). Only a couple sentences, but it's still very close to her, even though she tries to ignore it. Also, she can seem a bit mean to Francis, but please be sure that it's all compulsory and has more to do with herself, and he knows that and respects her boundaries no matter how rude her coping mechanisms are. She'll grow out of it.

It started with an argument… probably. They’re always getting in arguments and the thing she hates the most is that they barely meet the bare requirements to be defined as such. Brother Francis doesn’t argue, the mere concept too hateful, too unholy for him. He simply suggests that she changes tactics for Warlock’s upbringing in the politest tone possible and when she inevitably reacts with an impatient ‘it’s not of your concern how I raise my employers’ son, I’ve been doing this for quite some time’, he apologizes like nothing happened and moves on.

He even manages to sound _concerned_ , like he cares, both for Warlock and for her.

Well, that’s a bit unfair, perhaps. She can say a lot about Brother Francis, but she can’t accuse him of not caring about Warlock. He does, same way he cares about every living creature on Earth, even the ones she tries to make Warlock understand he owes no respect to. You can’t raise a future leader teaching him about looking after everything but himself. The real world will eat him alive and, despite Francis’ absurd beliefs, responding with kindness won’t save him then.

So maybe that’s what the argument was about. Or maybe there wasn’t any argument at all. Maybe he seems more pathetic than usual this morning, maybe the warm weather is doing funny things to her judgment, maybe his stupid words of encouragement to the roses hit in a way they don’t typically hit.

Whatever the reason is, this is the result: they’re all alone in the garden, she isn’t wearing her coat due to the already mentioned warm weather and he’s got her pinned against a tree.

There’s nothing forceful in the situation. At least, not the kind of forcefulness she finds reprehensible; the abusive type. And it’s not only because he’s more than incapable of physically holding her against her will —or because she knows, deeper down than she’d ever dare to dig, that he’d never do that—, but also because of the unexplainable nature of it.

No one is sure who started it. His hands creeping under the hem of her blouse suggest he made the first move and hers clenching to the neckline of his smock indicate she was the one to pull him in for a kiss. Nothing is fully clear but the existence of the kiss itself, desperate and messy before the tongue-on-tongue action even began.

It’s cathartic, in some way. Again, their arguments aren’t really arguments; they lack emotion, aside from his honest openness to help and her harried refusals to take said help. Or, the far more annoying version of it, him being far too ‘life is precious and pests are your friends’ with Warlock and her calling him out on it, just to have him nod and ‘apologize if he overstepped’, like he isn’t aware of what he’s doing.

Now _this_ is emotional. This is nothing but raw emotion, like in musicals: ‘when it becomes too much for talking, you start singing’ or something like that. Not that she enjoys musicals in the slightest, yet she supposes it’s the same principle.

“Wait,” he gasps when they break apart for air for a second, just to be pulled back against her lips.

She would have stopped —she always stops—if she had processed it behind the thick curtain of incoherence and desire fogging her mind.

“Wait, darling, wait,” he insists, a huffy chuckle escaping him this time.

She still doesn’t stop, although the motive is a bit different. The truth is she isn’t ready to face that ‘darling’. She never imagined this —and that’s a more sincere statement than the one about not enjoying musicals; an objective fact—, but if she had, she’d knew he’d be like this.

However, that natural, intuitive knowledge didn’t prepare her enough. Her experience with terms of endearment is limited and full of condescending men she wasn’t in the age to have anything to do with as a young lady. Even though she never heard ‘darling’, she understands it’s one step away from ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ and that’s something she won’t tolerate. She couldn’t.

She also understands that, being that the case, she should push him away and warn him not to call her anything resembling ‘darling’. And she understands even more that, if she did, he might want to end it all and continue with… whatever he does on a regular basis —and most likely wrong—.

The only sensible thing she can do is prolong the contact and pray he will forget about everything that makes him so infuriatingly him. But since she can’t pray…

“It’s… _mhm…_ It’s dangerous to do it — _oh, my, what has gotten into you_ — here,” he begs between kisses as she holds on for dear life to the back of his smock and hair, accidentally throwing his hat away in the process.

Then she realizes he’s right. Great, just what she needed. As if she hadn’t humiliated herself enough by allowing this.

She pushes him away, not too far or too roughly, just hard enough to wake up from this nightmare. It doesn’t work. All she accomplished was a few inches of air between their faces and some eye contact she can’t decide if she should maintain —and let him think she’s into him— or avoid —and let him think he makes her nervous—.

Francis’ breath is as erratic as hers —oh, how it mortifies her to notice it really is, not more, she’s breathing like that _too_ — and his eyes go from hers to her mouth and back in a matter of seconds, as if she just caught him staring at her breasts —which he could get away with this far into… everything—. To add insult to injury, a shy smile —the kind of smile that feels like a loveable shrug, _what can we do?_ — appears on his face and he looks down.

“Sorry, darling,” he apologizes, ignoring that she was the one to break them apart. “It’s… We can’t…”

“No, no, absolutely,” she agrees, her eyebrows vaguely raised and her mouth taking the shape of a line, after a longer than she intended silence to… take it all in. “We…” She cleared her throat. “We shouldn’t.”

“Not here.”

Not here…

She gulps. She didn’t mean to. She hasn’t gulped since the late eighties but, somehow, she needs to gulp now. And isn’t it a funny coincidence that it happens just when the most ridiculous man she has ever met is stabbing her on the leg against a tree? All these decades later and God’s sense of humour keeps trying to make her lean towards Satan’s side even more.

“Where, then?”

She wanted it to sound challenging, something in the line of ‘go ahead, surprise me, and you better not disappoint me’. It comes off as desperate instead.

Francis looks around, equally frantic, until his gaze finds a place that might be perfect.

“The tool shed,” he urges.

The tone implies he’ll take her hand and they’ll run to it like in those films she hates. But he can’t even do that — _perhaps because he doesn’t want to overstep_ , a voice that isn’t snarky enough to pass the test whispers at the back of her mind, and she shushes it out loud—, so he simply gives her space to move and gestures towards the building from which tiny window she’ll throw her dignity out.

It isn’t that far away, yet she rushes like she’s in a dark alley at eleven pm and someone is following her several steps behind. When she gets to the door, she looks back and notices he gave her advantage on purpose. She waits and rolls her eyes as he suddenly remembers he dropped his hat and waddles back to the tree to grab it. Soon enough —though not really— he’s opening the door and telling her she can go first —such a gentleman; he surely doesn’t expect to get anything from this—.

The first thing to go once the door is shut behind him are her glasses. It’s not that she let him take them off. It’s just that, in the race of them being all over each other and him clearing the nearest table with his whole arm as he helps her sit up on it, they almost fall off and she chooses to get rid of them as a security measure.

“Good lord,” he sighs against her mouth like he’s drowning, hand cupping her face as the other lands on her lower back. “I never thought…”

“Shut up,” she orders, forcing him farther between her thighs, although her skirts don’t make it any easier.

Their styles of kissing are complete opposites. His is a careful exploration, more sensual than sexual, and hers is violent, practically cannibalistic. Still, the tool shed is warm, their tongues are avid and their hold is firm. There’s not a lot of consensus left to establish. It is what it is.

“This is not how I wanted—” he makes another attempt at speaking.

She pauses in case it’s serious and stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Do you want to stop?”

“Hell no,” he shakes his head and laughs in pure bliss before going on, down her neck this time, hands struggling to pop a few of her blouse’s buttons.

She softly groans as he moves to her left shoulder, the only thing he managed to uncover with such speed. A hint of her lace-covered breast is on display, too, and he grabs it like one grabs something precious, cupping it with his trembling palm.

It should be disgusting. Not because Brother Francis isn’t conventionally attractive —she couldn’t care less about that—, but because he’s… the type, isn’t he? The type no woman wants to know is dedicating masturbation sessions to her. A brute. A gentle brute is still a brute. It comes off him in waves. He drools and huffs and says ‘darling’ like only a brute can.

Nanny Ashtoreth has dealt with her fair share of brutes in the past, mostly back in the days when those condescending men convinced her she was too young and too ‘pretty’ to be anything but submissive. She can admit there is a certain appeal to it, give up control like that —or make them lose control—. However, Francis is so tender she can’t get that from him. It’s the middle-groundness of it all what upsets her the most.

His hands sneak under her skirts and pull them up enough to gain access to what’s under them. They stay on her thighs, right where the stockings become burning freckled skin. Then two fingers go up to brush against her sex through her knickers. She’s so obviously damp it makes her want to cry in shame.

“Can I?” he mutters.

“Of course you can,” she bites back. That’s the only verb that can describe how she says it.

With reaffirmed enthusiasm, he puts the soaked fabric aside and caresses. It’s so light and respectful she panics and starts pulling on his smock, trying to take it off. He interrupts his ministrations to help her and throw the damn thing away, but is immediately back to it.

Her hands go for his trousers, then. At this point, she just wishes she had more to do. It’s an awful position to be in. He has full freedom of movement and she can barely spread her legs.

She takes his prick out right when a finger slips inside, forcing a pitiful moan out of her. She never says ‘prick’ but she refuses to call it anything else. Some men have cocks and some men have pricks, and doesn’t matter what she’ll think as she overthinks it in bed later; right now, it makes sense.

It’s short and thick and hot. Nothing she isn’t used to. He gasps as she squeezes —not hard. He surely does it on his own and that’s why he gasps now— and she’s got the upper hand again. He pushes a second finger it and she’s back on square one.

“Are you clean?” she mumbles once there’s no doubt about her… receptiveness.

Brother Francis blinks and looks down at himself.

“I could take a shower if you—”

“Oh, what am I saying? Of course you are,” she clicks her tongue, disappointed on herself, wrapping her arms and legs around him to pretend she was never so delusional.

The intrusion is slow and almost goes unnoticed when compared to the desperation of their kisses. Both of them exhale an ‘ah’ —hers more like an ‘oh, so it’s in’— and keep going. It’s almost offensive, how into it they are, how thoughtlessly ready they are to put their jobs at risk and act like this won’t change a thing. Makes her thing of a true crime story when every individual action the murderer made that day is described with such a deep and domestic level of detail that it doesn’t feel like a true crime story anymore.

“Oh, so tight,” he sobs, eyes closed, hips thrusting. “So, so tight…”

It comes to her mind that perhaps she was too quick to dismiss any chance of experience on his part. He must have some history to compare her to. And suddenly she feels a bit guilty —in a strange malicious way— for not comparing him to his predecessors. He’s not as big as that bloke at the pub five years ago. His technique isn’t as precise as the Russian dancer from that Christmas party back in the early 2000s. And now she feels even worse because that doesn’t make him look bad.

She soon figures out she might as well have a good time, since she can’t pass it as something she’ll be able to respect herself for in a couple hours.

“Oh, fuck,” she grunts, grabbing at the back of his shirt without any consideration.

That prompts him to go faster. She starts moving, too. His arms enclose her waist, pulling her closer, chest flushed against his. She smells the sweat and hears the groans and he’s almost crushing her and how can one miss something they never had so fucking much?

“Shhh,” he exhales and gives her a distressed look that travels from one spot of the room to another, on guard. “We’ve got to be… _ah_ , quiet.”

She wasn’t aware that she was making so much noise. She never makes that much noise. Apparently, this is a special day.

“ _Ms._ _Ashtoreth, please_.” His plea and his eyes get more urgent.

It definitely is a special day. His hand goes up to her face as if he’s about to put it against her mouth, but he seems to change his mind —a wise thing to do— and strokes her cheek with his knuckles instead. He’s waving the white flag and, even though she won’t push the noise boundary, she grins and undulates, dragging a restrained moan from both of them.

He holds her tight again and she rests her chin on his shoulder, indulging, coming to the conclusion that it’s not that serious. It’s when her eyes meet the clock hanging from the opposite wall that she realizes something she does care about.

“Shit, Warlock,” she says and pulls back to look at Francis. “You have seven minutes.”

Francis smiles fondly.

“I only need three,” he confesses, amused and embarrassed.

She doesn’t laugh.

“You.” Her hips push against his, earning a sigh. “Have.” And again. “Seven.” And again. “Minutes. Understood?”

He nods, breathless and eager to please. It’s on the verge of cute and she hates that. What she doesn’t hate is what he does next, going back to work like the previous conversation never happened, like she couldn’t throw him off his feet if she wanted to.

She’s the one to cover her own mouth, since the bloody coward who knows what’s good for him won’t. The end is close and she wonders how they’re getting out of this, both physically and… hornily. How she’ll be capable of living a normal life knowing Brother Francis, the weak gardener who talks like he never left some sort of hippy cult that she argues with on a regular basis, fucks like this? And the fact she just came thinking about that? Is there a going back at all?

“T-terribly sorry, my darling, I’m… I’m about to…”

She doesn’t get to complain before he pulls out and grins at her like it’s over.

“Sorry I didn’t…” he tries to add.

“Shut it,” she orders through clenched teeth, abandoning the table and fixing her clothes like it’s nothing.

Francis is about to insist when he sees her get down on her knees. His eyes widen, expecting it to be a joke, maybe. It isn’t. He puffs out a nervous laugh and looks over his shoulder, to the clock.

“You have three minutes,” he tells her, attention back on her.

Nanny Ashtoreth smirks.

“I only need thirty seconds.”

Without further ado, she takes him into her mouth right to the root, nose brushing his pubic hair. He bites on his own fist and his free arm moves in the same way a bird’s wing would. Turns out she needed less than thirty seconds.

“Wait,” he warns, forgetting that coming in her mouth is, in this scenario, more chivalrous than ruining her clothes and make-up.

She pays him no mind, grabbing his hips to stop him from getting away and swallowing every last drop.

There’s a weird pride in sucking a man’s soul out his cock —or prick—. She used to hate it; not only swallowing, but the whole concept, probably because all her early experiences were tainted by the condescending men that were too old for her. Now she’s over it and, as long as the lucky guy doesn’t try to immobilise her or comments on how her mouth was made to suck cock —a terrible patriarchal injustice, given how gifted she is in the eating out department—, pretty much everything is fair game.

Not that Francis would ever come up with something like that. Not that she can be sure. Oh, dear Satan, she can’t be sure…

“Well, that should be all,” she concludes, standing up, purposefully oblivious to his shocked expression.

She brushes the dust off her skirts and walks to a dirty mirror, hanging close to the table they just profaned.

“Pass me my glasses,” she asks and Francis obeys without thinking twice. “My lipstick isn’t smeared, is it?”

She cleans every possible hint of what they did with a methodical thumb as he awkwardly stays beside her, unsure of what to do. Now that’s something he could teach Warlock…

“You should go first,” she suggests, pinning her hair up to renovated flawlessness. “It would do us no good, to be seen leaving together.”

Francis takes a few seconds to respond, surprised by the bureaucratic approach she’s got to something he has trouble believing, and jumps in a respectful rush to leave once his brain translates it.

“O-oh, yes, of course. I shall… Um, leave you now, dearie. Have a nice day.”

“Don’t forget anything,” she reminds him, cold, eyes still on the reflecting glass.

“Of course not, of course not…” he remarks, crashing against every single object in the room before reaching the exit.

He has already opened the door when she absently questions:

“Did you put your penis back in your trousers, dear?”

Silence.

“ _Yes…_ ”

She can’t fight back a small grin at the sound of the zipper and how he continues to bump into things outside the tool shed. It’s the regular music of nature what makes her realize that she has lost her bloody mind.


End file.
